


TDYG AU Oneshots

by bodiddleydarn



Series: The Deeper You Go AU [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angsty Schmoop, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NAMESWAP COMPLIANT, NSFW, Revised Version, fiddlestan, if you read TDYG then you should get these tags, mature content (at times), mcgrunkle, ratings and warnings vary between chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-31 20:00:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3990862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodiddleydarn/pseuds/bodiddleydarn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The self-indulgent AU I wrote damn near 70K+ for <em>apparently</em> isn't done, yet. Ohh, no.</p><p>This "fic" is a compilation of (mostly) standalone oneshots fleshing out the additional headcanons I've made re: the state of the Fiddlestan relationship post-The Deeper You Go. </p><p>There'll be emotions of all stripe within, kiddies.</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Canceled"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, I've taken down the short, pathetic excuse for a Fiddlestan "Boss Mabel" oneshot that was here in favour of putting up a much longer version. _Not_ as promised, I'm first posting a longer version of that one drabble I put on my blog last July about Fiddleford getting stuck in an airport.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Late winter, 1995._

 

CANCELED.

The word shone down at him in a neat red digital read-out, fixed and unchanging, even as the rows of departures refreshed and updated themselves around it. Albuquerque, Des Moines, Salt Lake City-- Every other new flight scheduled for the upcoming hour rolled over like clockwork, gate numbers flipping as transferring passengers arrived around the suspended screens as expected to check their next destination. One hundred gates spread out over five terminals, and all looked ready to go.

All of them, it seemed, _except_ for the one American Airlines flight to Bend, Oregon.

 _‘I hate flyin’ commercial,’_ Fiddleford internally seethed.

There’s a brief moment where a husky, smiley voice echoes back at him in his memory, and Fidd feels his frustrated frown deepen into a chagrined scowl. _‘Should’a bought your own airplane, Fiddlesticks.’_

He’d left behind all that extravagant luxury bullshit when he’d divorced Victoria! Quality, sure, impressive functionality, absolutely; those were the only factors Fiddleford ever let guide his present purchases. And, he certainly hadn’t had a legitimate _reason_ for buying something as absurdly self-indulgent as a private jet; Stanley’s dollar-sign eyes be damned.

Although, now, it was looking like the rare nugget of practical foresight nestled within the core of his husband’s incredible greed had been onto something.

But, it was _1995_ , for cryin’ out loud! This wasn’t PanAm. American Airlines regularly flew people to Western Europe, Scandinavia, _Japan_. They were the best airline coming out of the States today. They weren’t supposed to drop the ball, let alone “drop the ball” on a domestic destination _in their own goddamned country._

He adjusted his grip on the handle of his suitcase, and patted his metal fingertips against the plastic face of his cellphone, in his pocket. He heaved a sigh. _‘I’m never hearin’ the end of this,’_ Fiddleford internally mourned.

There was a tram that ran between the terminals. Fiddleford’s canceled flight was originally supposed to be taking off from B17, three terminals away from where he now stood.

He rode the escalator up from Terminal E, shuffling past similarly haggard-faced, be-suited red eye travelers milling around on the platform landing.

Fiddleford watched the gloomy, concrete acreage of Atlanta International sprawl beyond the speeding tram windows as he thought. How many hours behind was Gravity Falls, again? Five? He glanced down at his watch. Stanley had to be closing up shop around now.

He exited the tram when it stopped at Terminal B, punching the #1 button on his cellphone as he wove through the scattered crowd.

The line clicked open after a couple of rings. _“Yeah? Hello?”_

“Stanley,” Fiddleford said. “My flight’s been canceled.”

_“Oh, really? Shit, babe. That sucks.”_

“Aptly put.”

 _“But,_ _y’knooow_ ,” Stan’s gravelly timbre began, just as Fiddleford’s eyes rolled behind his glasses in time with the predictable sound, _“this wouldn’t have happened if you had your own plane.”_

“Yes, yes, I know,” the engineer snapped. “You were _right_ , you had a point, I was wrong. Happy?”

A cackle. _“Always.”_

The annoyance disappeared as quickly as it had come, and Fiddleford found himself huffing in amusement. What a jackass.

_“What’re you doin’ now?”_

“Walkin’ to the gate I was supposed to be leaving from,” Fidd told. He was nearing B17, and slowed down as he got close enough to see the ticketing desk in front of the closed gate ramp door. A small crowd of people were standing around in front of the desk, with one lone American Airlines employee busily tapping away on a computer behind. “There’s quite a crowd here,” Fiddleford added. Outside, in the dimly-lit tarmac below, the usual security carts and neon-vested pit crew were absent, as well as the necessary plane. Simply reading about the change in his itinerary just didn’t have the same sort of sinking, undeniable knowledge of actually seeing the lack of his intended flight.

“The flight’s definitely been canceled, Stan,” Fiddleford said. He could hear in his voice the disappointed despondency he was feeling.

His spouse’s own voice went a bit kinder in response. _“Sorry ‘bout that, Fiddleford.”_

The courtesy of the commiseration put a soft, grateful warmth in his chest. “Well, I’m gettin’ in line,” Fidd explained, following the slow churn of other passengers as they loosely formed something resembling a proper queue. “Though, it might take me a while to see what’s what.”

 _“I’ll stay on with you. I just locked the Shack, anyways_ ,” Stanley told. _“How long does that phone you got get for a charge?”_

Fiddleford scratched at his short beard. “About a day, tops.”

There’s the sound of upholstery shifting, and the tell-tale creak of that awful yellow armchair in the Mystery Shack’s living room reclining back with a satisfied nose exhale coming from Stanley. Fidd can see it in his mind as clearly as if the action were happening right in front of him. His husband was nothing if not predictable in his laziness. _“Heh,”_ Stan huffs. _“Surprised you ain’t twiddled with that thing to boost up the juice it can hold, Fidd.”_

“I _did_ ,” Fiddleford countered. “That’s _why_ the battery can last for a day.”

Stanley made a low, sympathetic whistle. _“Yeouch.”_

“Mmm.”

An easy silence spread over the line as Fiddleford stood and waited. He could hear Stanley breathe a bit harder as he probably leaned over the side of his armchair and grabbed up one of those tacky magazines he was always reading. The following flop of glossed pages falling open confirmed Fiddleford’s suspicion.

On top of everything else, the climate control system in this terminal seemed to be on the fritz. The muggy press of nearby bodies added to the warmth coming from multiple people talking and moving around each other, making the air a strange, dry kind of humid heat. Fiddleford was just in a light suit and dress shirt, but he was starting to feel flushed.

After another minute or so of standing in place, he felt a bead of sweat drip down the crease of his elbow.

An annoyed exhale crackled over the line as the engineer vented his frustration.

 _“…Hey, did’ja ever hear the one about the two old ladies going to heaven?”_ Stan suddenly piped up.

“No, Stanley,” Fidd answered, voice short and tight. “An’ I’m not in the mood for one’a your--”

_“Aw, c’mon. What, you got somewhere to be for the next thirty seconds? Huh? Are you **so busy** right now, Mr McGucket?”_

Damn that smartass.

Fiddleford counted to three inside his head, and focused on evening his breathing. “…Fine,” he conceded.

His husband’s voice comes through bright and enthused over the phone. _“Alright, so: Two old ladies, right? They’re dead, kaput, an’ they meet up at the pearly gates, y’know, an’ they’re about to go talk to Saint Peter--”_

“I thought you didn’t believe in Saint Peter, Stan,” Fidd pointed out. “You’re Jewish.”

_“For the sake of a joke, baby, I believe in anything.”_

He can’t help the laugh that bursts from his lips. “That sounds about right.”

_“Stop interruptin’. Now, the two old broads, right, they’re waitin’ at the pearly gates, and the second lady makes some chitchat. She asks the first woman, ‘Hey, why did you die?’ And the lady goes: ‘Well, I was sure my husband was cheatin’ on me, so I came home early and I ran around the house trying to find his mistress, but I had a heart attack and died before I could find her.’”_

“Well, that’s unfortunate.”

_“Fidd. Hush. So the first woman turns it back and asks the other: ‘Well, why did you die?’”_

“I can see this ain’t gon’a end well--“

_“Fiddleford, I swear to god, if you don’t stop interruptin’--“_

“--Fine! Fine, go on, Stanley, I’m sorry.”

_“Good. Alright. Heh, so, so the second woman says: ‘You didn’t check the freezer, did you?’ And the first woman says ‘No’, and the second, the second woman says: ‘Well, if you’d checked the freezer, I wouldn’t’ve froze to death, and we’d both still be alive!’ HAH!”_

Despite himself, Fiddleford snorted loud and felt himself smile. “Oh, my god,” he muttered.

 _“Heh, yeah, I like that one,”_ Stanley told.

“The freezer, though?”

_“Well, you’ve seen old ladies, they look like old turkeys.”_

Fiddleford was genuinely laughing now. He ignored the curious looks cast his way from surrounding strangers. "Good god, Stanley," he chided.

 _"I mean, I'm just sayin',"_ The other man’s voice is smug over the line. _"She probably fit, no problem."_

His giggles eventually petered out, but the smile remained for longer. Silence stretched back over the connection.

There was a soft breath on the other end of the line. _“Fidd, I--”_

“Sir?”

Fiddleford looked up, his eyes having mindlessly roamed somewhere towards a line of seats to his right, and caught the gaze of the American Airlines employee behind the desk. His place in line had advanced without Fiddleford realizing; a wide, empty space of discolored carpet gapped between himself and the face of the counter. “Oh, sugar, I got’a go,” Fidd told the phone in a controlled rush.

Stan pouted a sound better fit for someone twenty years his junior. _“ **Aw** , c’mooon--”_

Fiddleford walked towards the desk, but hadn’t yet turned to face the airline attendant. “I’m next in line, Stanley.”

 _“At least let me say goodbye, Fidd.”_ Few people could sulk like Stan Pines.

The situation at hand was suddenly forgotten as a private smile curled the engineer’s lips, and his attention focused onto that deep voice. “Then say it,” he teased, voice soft.

 _“I’m gon’a,”_ Stanley returned, his gravely voice playful, but just as soft.

Something flapped close to his face, a brownish blur in his periphery. Fiddleford glanced over; the attendant was gesturing impatiently for him to hang up, an irritable expression glaring at him from behind the computer monitor. Immediately, the fond lightheartedness in his chest disappeared, and Fiddleford felt himself frown. Impatience, he could understand, given how thankless a service job had to be-- but there was no need to wave a hand in his _face._

He raised his human index finger at the woman, brows rising in challenge as he held her gaze. “One moment, if you _don’t_ mind,” he clipped, tone curt and firm with warning.

Stanley husked a laugh into the phone. _“Shit, someone must be screwin’ up,”_ he remarked, grin clear in Fiddleford’s ear. _“You switched on the Boss Voice.”_

“Good _bye_ , Stanley,” Fidd drawled, shooting a calm look at the attendant. The corners of the woman’s mouth pulled back into her cheeks, flattening her lips into a thin, frustrated line.

 _“Did you do the look?”_ Stan asked, ignoring Fiddleford’s farewell. _“The ‘oh, bitch, I swear to god’ look? I think that one’s my favourite.”_

“Stanley.”

 _“Then there’s that glare you do that, heh, freaks me out a little,”_ Stan continued, _“but, y’know, in the best way. I like to call it ‘bottom bossypants’--”_

“STANLEY PINES. Goodbye.”

There was a brief snorting cackle, and then his husband finally hung up.

Fiddleford exhaled noisily, pulling down his cellphone to push in the antenna and close the faceplate with his free palm. He flashed a cordial smile at the still frowning airline employee. “I need complimentary hotel accommodations, please.”

\------------------------------------------------

Probably wasn’t the best idea to snipe at an already overwhelmed service employee, Fiddleford internally reflected, dropping his briefcase onto the second bed.

American Airlines had compted all stranded passengers from intended flight 618 a free night’s stay at any hotel with an empty room within a five-mile radius from Atlanta International. Fidd wasn’t sure how much of a discretion the attendant at Gate B17 actually had over room arrangements, but he had a suspicion the woman he’d pissed off might’ve flagged his ticket number so that he wound up with one of the crappier accommodations on the list. If he’d needed to be put up for longer than a single night, Fiddleford would have made a scene at the ticket counter and gone higher up the ladder than playing paddy-cake with a low level booking attendant, but since his make-up flight was early and it was already quite late, the engineer really didn’t care about the specifics of staying in a room with a clean bed and a working lock on the door.

He toed off his loafers and pulled loose his tie, shrugging out of his blazer as he made his way over to the air conditioning unit beneath the window. There was a simple steel clothes rack mounted to the wall, not far from the vents. Fiddleford looped his tie over one of the bars and slid close one of the non-removable hangers, unbuckling his belt after his jacket was hung. The rest of his outer clothing soon followed; the hotel room was cool, matching the late-February weather outside, but Fidd knew he’d need to turn the air on overnight if he was going to have to wear the same clothes two days in a row. He'd be lucky if he could air at least some of that awful traveler funk out the fabric.

Curiously, after he was standing barefoot in his shorts, Fiddleford pulled one of the arms of his hanging dress-shirt up to his nose, and took a whiff. He jerked back with an offended expression. _‘Oh, that’s nasty.’_

If he couldn’t find a terminal kiosk that sold deodorant tomorrow, he mused, flicking on the lightswitch inside the bathroom doorway; Fiddleford felt sorry for whatever poor fucker was going to have to sit beside him all the way to Oregon.

The shower was hot enough to make up for the water pressure being just on the lesser side of adequate and the soap being that thin, crumbly cheap milk bar shit Fiddleford usually only had to deal with in public restrooms. But, it still smelled better than a buildup of B.O. and airport stink, so he ignored how easily it broke in his hands.

He'd just toweled off and climbed into the bed farthest from the door when his cellphone started to ring in its charging stand on the nightstand. Fiddleford folded down the comforter and sheets around his waist, reaching over to grab his phone. He pulled out the antenna and flicked down the faceplate with his thumb, cradling it against his ear with one shoulder as his other hand clicked on the television. "Hello?"

 _"They get'cha in a good room?"_ Stanley asked.

"Good enough," The engineer replied, punching down the volume on the teevee until the nondescript infomercial was nothing but a quiet drone in the background. "Why'd you call?"

There was a momentary pause, and then a dramatic sputter of astounded syllables garbled on the other end before the younger man said: “ _Aw, **hell** , Fiddleford," _Stan groused, only slightly annoyed. _"Why d'you think? I missed you, genius. I got’a sleep alone again tonight. You callin' from the airport wasn't enough."_

Fiddleford couldn't help the fond grin. “Sentimental,” he teased, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

 _“Heavy on the ‘mental’,”_ Stanley added.

“Thought that was my department.”

_“Well, I did say 'yes' to marry you.”_

“Hey!” The expected cackle was a warm comfort in his ear. "Where are you, by the way?"

 _"Back at the house,"_ Stan told. _"I didn't wan'a stay at the Shack again tonight, because..."_ The man's words petered out into an uncharacteristic pause. 

Fiddleford felt himself listen harder. "Why?" He pressed.

A fabric-like shuffling on the other end betrayed Stanley's location. _"'Cause the damn room at the Shack doesn't smell like you, dicknose, alright?"_ Stanley admitted, tone weirdly shy and defensive. It'd been years since Fiddleford had heard him sound like that. _"I didn't want to sleep in my bed at the Shack because it doesn't smell like **you** anymore. I wanted to be in ours, at the house. You just had to make me say it, didn't you?"_

"Oh, _Stanley_ ," Fidd breathed. Sweet old bastard was too much, sometimes. "That's fine, sugar, just fine. You know I'm flattered."

_"Huh."_

“To be perfectly honest,” Fiddleford began, wriggling down until only his head and shoulders were propped against the under-stuffed pillows stacked at the headboard, “I was lookin’ forward to seein’ you, too. Clean or not, hotel fabric softener wasn’t exactly the scent I wanted in my nose as I went to sleep tonight. Did’ja ever open that aftershave Lorraine gave you for your birthday?”

 _“Nah, not yet,”_ Stan answered absently. _“So…”_ The timbre of his voice suddenly dropped into a deliberate husk as he asked: _“…What’re you wearin’?”_

‘Undignified’ was a nice way of describing the snort Fiddleford made. “Oh my god.”

_“Whaaat?”_

“You’re an _animal_ ,” the engineer chided, though still smiling. “Here we were, bein’ _sweet_ , havin’ _a moment_ , and you ask about _that_.”

Stanley’s self-satisfied grin rang proud over the line. “ _Hah, I **did** learn from the best.” _

The engineer couldn’t argue with him there.

“ _But don’t avoid the question.”_

Fiddleford rolled his eyes, and sighed. “Well, since I’m gon’a have to wear the same clothes again tomorrow,” he explained, “I took off my underwear and balled ‘em up inside my briefcase. I’d rather put on a smelly shirt and pants again instead of wearin’ used underwear twice. I _do_ have my limits.”

 _“So, you’re wearing my favourite suit right now,”_ Stanley told.

“…What?”

_“Your birthday suit.”_

The laugh he shouted out was positively embarrassing. _“Idiot!”_ Fiddleford’s cheeks started to hurt as his smile stretched wider, giggling stupidly into his free hand. “You are such a fuckin’ _idiot_.”

_“Best suit you own, baby, not about to lie.”_

His giggles eventually faded into scattered, weak bursts. “Mmm, well,” Fiddleford re-perched his glasses. “It is one of a kind.”

Silence spread between them, then, the same kind of comfortable quiet that usually showed itself whenever they ran out of words, but didn't want to be alone-- even if it was just over the phone.

 _“Damn, I miss you,”_ Stanley confessed. _“You’ve been gone too long this time, Fidds.”_

Fiddleford bit his lip, a twist of longing lurching weakly in his middle. He had been gone too long. Nine days of meetings had been glorious for the business side of MGL, but hell on McGucket, himself. The wonderful luxury convenience of cellular telephones _did_ help, but only being able to _hear_ his spouse instead of getting to cross a room, or drive five minutes across town and wrap his arms around the person he missed just wasn’t enough. “I know,” the engineer said, swallowing.

 _“Reached out across the bed the other night, ‘n you weren’t there,”_ Stanley told. As he spoke, his voice went lower; huskier like before, but devoid of any playful performance. The rough, honest words were like a confession. _“Wanted to hold you so bad. I love how you fit right up under my chin, how your legs fit with mine, all tangled up when you let me roll over on top’a you-- I wanted to do that so bad, Fidd.”_

Fiddleford couldn’t help the slight hitch to his breath as he listened, closing his eyes to let the intimacy of Stan’s words fill him.

_“I missed how you your skin feels-- soft, smooth, all them moles y’got everywhere; geez, Fidd, you’re goddamned handsome. Missed bein’ able to kiss you, kiss down your neck, drag a lip across a nipple…”_

Fidd forced out a shaky exhale, biting his bottom lip as heat poured behind his navel to spread in his pelvis. He switched ears with his cellphone to free his right hand, and the unbothered ear was twice as sensitive to the sounds of his husband describing how he would touch him.

_“Missed how you cling to me when I brush my hand down your stomach and reach down past your cock…”_

He could practically feel Stanley’s breath on his ear, on his neck--

_“You touchin’ yourself, Fiddleford?”_

“N-Not yet,” he admitted. The cheap hotel sheets were scratchy against his growing erection, so Fiddleford flung them aside as best he could with his free hand, kicking them the rest of the way off.

 _“…Damn, that’s hot,”_ Stanley breathed. _“But d’you know what it’d do to my ego if you got off on just me talkin’ to you?”_

“Oh- _ohh_ ,” the engineer gasped, wrapping his prosthetic hand around himself; the metal was warm and smooth, slick without being wet, and was a fine substitute to the lack of lube. “I-I’d never live it down,” Fiddleford said, fisting a steady pace on his cock as he listened.

 _“I wouldn’t want you to, y’know,”_ Stan imparted. _“Christ, I wish I could see you. I never get tired of seein’ you like this, Fiddleford--”_ There’s a grunt, and a shifting, and the knowledge that Stanley is most likely masturbating to the mere _thought_ of seeing _him_ masturbate gave the older man a jolt of flattered arousal so intense, he thought he might not be able to catch his breath. _“--Just, **nngh** , j-just so perfect, blushin’, your face ‘n eyebrows wrinklin’ up all cute, the sounds y-you make--”_

Fiddleford makes a strangled kind of gasp, his hand moving faster, trying to chase the sensation of arousal into a proper rhythm.

Stanley groaned into the phone. _“--NNghyeah, like that.”_

It was practically stream-of-consciousness now, an unending babble of unadulterated, worshipful praise for Fiddleford vaunting from Stanley’s end, and all of the engineer’s attentions were centered on that sound, his hips twitching up off of the bed after every proper roll into his fist when his thumb caught on his cockhead, pulling precome back over the stretching slide on his foreskin, tension winding tighter in time with his moans and his husband’s own sounds.

 _“Fidd, I’m-- Jesus, Fidd, I wish I could, c-could see you, I’d--”_ A guttural, animal-like sound rumbles over the line and when Stanley speaks again, his voice is gruff with throaty praise, and Fidd comes to that sound with a high shout. In the white mindlessness of orgasm, Fiddleford can barely register the distant sound of Stan following him not too long after.

There’s nothing to hear but tired panting and his own blood pounding in his ears for long, blissful seconds. But the afterglow is cut short for Fiddleford when the chill of the hotel room-- previously ignored in favour of focusing entirely on his husband’s voice --makes the warmth on his middle quickly disappear, leaving a cool, tacky feeling on his skin. A grunt leaves him as he struggles upwards and swings his legs over the side of the mattress.

 _“What’re you, getting’ up already?”_ Stan’s tone still sounds gruff, but now lacking any of the energy he’d sounded like he had just moments before.

“Room’s real cold,” Fidd tells, sounding just as tired as the other man did. “Got’a wash up ‘fore I can sleep.”

 _“Mmm. That sucks,”_ Stanley muses.

Fiddleford flicks off the teevee after he’s done in the bathroom, and drags his legs back onto the bed. There’s a sharp protest from his lower back as he reaches over and pulls the blankets to cover himself, and it’s echoed in his knees. Healthy libido, or not-- he was still getting old. _‘And this cheap mattress isn’t helpin’ matters.’_

Fidd pulls off his glasses, rolling onto his side to set them on the nightstand. “Y’should sleep too, Stanley,” he says, angling his position to take pressure off of his knee.

As if on cue, there’s a yawn in his ear. _“At least le’me say goodbye.”_

Fiddleford closes his eyes, remembering the first time Stan had said those words today. “Then say it.”

Stan sighs. _“Night, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow-- right?”_

“Right. I'll sue someone if I can't get out'a Atlanta for a second time.”

_“Good. I love you, Fidd.”_

“I love you, Stanley Pines.”

 _“Tonight was fun,”_ Stan suddenly throws out, like from a last-ditch flare of energy. _“Wan’a have a sequel before your flight in the morning?”_

Fiddleford hangs up, returns his cellphone to its stand, and clicks off the bedside lamp.

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by actual real-life events from when I got stuck in Texas last July and my grandmother stayed with me on the phone, cracking dirty jokes at me while I waited for a hotel room.
> 
> The phone sex part was completely inspired by my being a pervert and _not_ real-life events-- but, I know my mawmaw's a straight up freak, so I think she'd approve, anyways.
> 
>  
> 
> _(P.S., I headcanon Fiddleford as 54 and Stanley as 40 in 1995.)_


	2. "It's The Thought That Counts"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still polishing up the "Boss Mabel" rewrite, but I recently caught up with _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ and the opener for "House Mouses" damn near killed me when Holt smiled like that, I _had_ to write a TDYG oneshot about it.
> 
> (I know, the ending sucks. I'll come back later and edit this; I just really wanted to slap up what I wrote for the scenario.)

_Sometime in spring, 2012._

 

“Hey, Charmaine! Come get in on this!”

The assistant stopped walking, looking in curiously past the break room doorjamb. “Whaaat… are you guys doing?”

Charmaine walked closer and Schuyler gestured vaguely at the mess of cellophane and candy wrappers on the table. “Someone sent the office a present! It’s full of weird candies and snacks; most of it tastes awesome, though.” The tech reached down and picked up a vacuum-sealed plastic bag about the size of his hand, and turned its logo towards Charmaine. “Why do bagged pickles exist? Who started that?” He shook the bag, making the green brine inside the package slosh around behind the cartoon logo of a pickle in a dress. “Look at this lil’ lady, hah.”

Charmaine stared, face remaining impassive. “Uh-huh.”

“I tried eating a couple of these things,” Abdullah piped up, bringing attention to a small blue box with large white writing, “but, they’re really bitter.”

“That’s because they’re headache powders,” the woman explained.

Abdullah blinked.

“…Medicine, Abdullah. You’re eating _medicine_. Did you even read the box? It says so right here--” Charmaine moved forward and picked up the box, turning it around as she gestured beneath the small white typeface: “--Headache Powders.”

The analyst shrugged, nervous. “It said ‘goodies’! Though, it is misspelled. But, I thought it was some kind of candy, like this other stuff; y’know, it’s a _powder_ , I thought it was a new brand of Fun Dip?”

“He’s not gon’a die, is he?” Schuyler asked.

Abdullah demanded: “Who puts medicine in a candy basket?!”

Charmaine bit down on the inside of her cheek, nostrils flaring. “Yeah, you’re all getting fired.”

Anette, the switchboard secretary who was always in early, stopped in the middle of taking a bite out of what looked like a Zebra Cake. “…Oh my god.”

 “You bozos don’t know anything about the Head CEO, do you?”

Vague looks passed around the small group as each of them tried to come up with an answer.

“He’s gay.”

“And scary.”

“Scary _smart_.”

“You say ‘smart’, I say ‘paranoid’,” Simon quipped.

“He’s also Southern,” Charmaine explained, growing impatient. “You guys. What seems off about all this stuff? Hmm? Have you ever even _seen_ these brands sold in a store around here, or, even some of the stuff in this basket-- sold in a Pacific Northwestern grocery store at all?” She picked up things from the basket as she named them. “Sugar Babies, Sugar Daddy, Cow Tales, Sno Caps, Bit-O-Honey, Chick-O-Stick, Fruit Stripe gum, MoonPies, a cute baggie of candied pecans, and-- look, there’s even an aerated, insulated box of hushpuppies.” The others stared at the box in question, their expressions ranging from hesitance to outright horror. “You enjoying that bag of kettle corn, Megan?” Charmaine snapped.

“…It’s so sweet, but it’s popcorn. _Popcorn_ ,” Megan emphasized, raising her eyebrows in disbelief, even as she funneled another handful of kettlecorn into her mouth.

The PA frowned. “How about you, Simon?” Charmaine continued. “Those boiled peanuts give you trouble? Don’t try to hide your hands, there’s peanut juice splattered all over your shirt front.”

The man in question guiltily pulled his hands back up to his lap and toyed nervously with the lid of the container that had once held a pound of boiled peanuts.

Anger had officially taken over from baffled surprise. Charmaine put her hands on her hips and _glared_. “How are you people the ones who were hand-picked to work in this office if you couldn’t even figure out that a fancy, out-of-place basket of _practically foreign_ snacks, delivered by overnight post, was a gift for the fucking boss?”

“We thought it was a complimentary basket from the board!” Abdullah squawked. For someone with a face the same color as his slacks, the tech was looking really pale. “I mean, our recent quarterly tally broke company records, didn’t it?” he scrambled, “The, the CFO opened up a bottle of champagne and everything last Tuesday!”

“Oh my god, there’s a card,” Anette mourned. She’d started pawing through the rest of the basket’s contents while Charmaine had been chewing out the others, and had unearthed a plain white card taped to the back of an unopened box of MoonPies. Carefully, Anette unstuck the card and flipped it over. Typed neatly on the mail client’s letterhead was a short message, and she read it aloud: _“‘I know you miss this stuff, so I took a cab to the seediest corner store I could find in Charlotte and bought one of everything.”_ Here, Anette’s voice got weaker and slowed, as if she were physically dreading having to finish the next sentence. “ _‘Pig out, babe. I’ll be home soon. XO’._ Oh, jesus,” she groaned, dropping the card as if it burned.

Schuyler swallowed the last bit of the Cow Tale he’d been chewing. “Wow, you’re _definitely_ going to get fired,” he commented.

“YOU’RE THE ONE WHO OPENED IT!” Anette shrieked.

“Aww, Mister McGucket’s husband really is a teddy bear, huh?” Megan observed, stepping around a heavily-breathing Abdullah, and plucking up the card to inspect it.

“I saw him at the holiday party last year,” Simon told, stepping close to look, too. “He came and picked up the boss and they talked while they were waiting for the elevator, and Mr Pines had, like, the most lovestruck expression the whole time Mr McGucket was talking.”

Megan made a garbled squeal in her throat. “ _Nyohhhmygod_ , that’s _so cute_.”

“All of you, _shut up!”_

“YOU NEVER SAID IF I WAS GOING TO DIE, OR NOT, CHARMAINE!” Abdullah yelled, one hand braced on the table to support his panicking body. “I ATE THREE OF THOSE THINGS!”

“I’m going to get _fired_.” Anette-- “perfect attendance”, “never-had-a-sick-day” Anette --looked a few seconds away from ugly sobbing.

“It’s just aspirin, Abdullah! God!” Charmaine put her hands over her face, taking a deep breath through her fingers and holding it for a couple of seconds. She exhaled and dropped her arms, spreading her hands wide in a calming gesture. “Look, _okay_. Okay, we-- We can fix this. Anette, stop crying. Megan, stop eating the kettle corn. Simon, take the boiled peanut shells and the Tupperware they came in, _and_ your shirt, and burn it. And somebody find Simon a new shirt.”

The secretary looked offended. Simon spread a hand over his chest, opening his mouth to protest: “But--”

“The only way we’re going to fix this is if Mr McGucket doesn’t notice a thing, and, trust me: That man’s got ears like a fruitbat with a nose to match. He’ll get suspicious if he smells boiled peanuts and can’t find any. Go down to the basement, and burn all of that shit in the incinerator. _Now_.” A plan was rapidly forming in her head, and Charmaine was quickly going back over everything she’d ever been sent out to buy for the Head CEO. “We can do this, okay? Just-- just, _everyone_. Calm down. Bossman doesn’t get in until eleven, alright? Schuyler, make sure Abdullah doesn’t pass out, and then come with me.”

. . .

“Good morning, sir.”

“Mornin’, Charmaine,” Fiddleford returned, dropping his briefcase onto his desk and shrugging out of his overcoat. “Weather’s a bitch today, isn’t it? Supposed to be warm,” he commented, hanging his coat on a nearby rack.

“Absolutely, sir,” the PA agreed smoothly. “But, it is a good morning, anyways,” she began.

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow, eyeing his assistant with calculating suspicion. “Oh?”

If it weren’t for the years of experience, Charmaine would have probably lost all of her mounting confidence and articulation under the weight of that intelligent gaze. _‘Paranoid, indeed.’_

“You have a gift, sir,” Charmaine reached behind herself and pulled down the doorhandle to the office door, opening it just enough for Schuyler to scoot inside. Clutched in Schuyler’s hands was the same basket from earlier, except it was rewrapped in identical red cellophane and tied with a ribbon neat enough to have come from the gift’s original professional designer. “Came with the overnight post. It’s unopened, _obviously_ ,” Charmaine said, “but, I think it might be from Mr Pines. Isn't he visiting family on the East Coast?”

Schuyler set the basket down onto Mr McGucket’s desk, nodding a greeting at the Head CEO before stepping back outside. Charmaine pushed the door to close with one of her heels.

Fiddleford eyed the cellophane. “...Huh. Yes, he is.” He carefully unwrapped the ribbon, and peeled down the plastic wrapping as if he were dissecting it. “Candies, snacks, a… new box of fountain pens," he observed, "a tin of metal polish, a copy of every available technological magazine on newsstands, and--” Fiddleford reached inside the basket.

Internally, Charmaine sent fervent prayers to all of the gods she could think of.

“--A collector’s reprinted hardback edition of… the first five Star Trek novels.”

For a long, breathless moment, Mr McGucket didn’t budge, simply staring down at the slim boxed set of books in his grip.

But then, he _smiled_ ; a giddy, fond grin that split his cheeks and made the white-haired, bearded engineer look decades younger.

“...That man _really_ knows me,” He finally declared, tipping the books back until he had them held against his chest, his expression full of adoration.

“That’s wonderful, sir,” Charmaine offered. “Do you need anything else right now?”

Fiddleford had transferred the books into the crook of his left arm, and had begun curiously digging through the rest of the basket. “No, no thank you, Charmaine. You can go,” he hummed, content.

The PA slipped out of the office and walked down the hall before she allowed herself to lean against the wall and breathe in relief.

“Hey!” Schuyler stuck his head out from around the nearby corner. “Did he buy it?!” Abdullah was with him, and looked at Charmaine past Schuyler’s shoulder with a tense, wild-eyed expression of anxiety.

“Hasn’t got a clue,” Charmaine told.

Abdullah exhaled and slid to the floor, his face in his hands. Schuyler punched the air. “Yes!”

“But, if you idiots _ever_ do something like this again,” Charmaine threatened, drawing up the last remaining bit of her prior tension, “I’ll personally _make sure_ you guys get fired.”

“I am _never_ eating anything in this building _ever again_ ,” Abdullah swore, his voice an exhausted muffle from behind his fingers.

Schuyler raised his eyebrows. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

Charmaine pushed her head back against the wall, and closed her eyes.

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bagged pickles exist because there is a deity somewhere in the universe that wants us weird thumbed monkeys to be happy, that's why. And, Goody's Headache Powders are seriously magic. And, if you guys haven't had a Chick-O-Stick, get your asses on Amazon and order one (if you're not in the U.S. Deep South, like I am.) It's peanut butter and coconut baked together and rolled in... almond shavings, I think? That shit is _delicious._
> 
> Also, I headcanon bb!Fiddleford as a sci-fi escapist who probably inhaled as much pulp science fiction as he could sneak away, and that the introduction of Star Trek in the '60s is what prompted him to focus his industry onto consumer electronics and communications.
> 
> ONCE A TREKKIE, ALWAYS A TREKKIE


	3. "Boss Mabel"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TDYG AU interpretation of "Boss Mabel", I.e. one of my absolute favourite Gravity Falls episodes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this feels jumpy and/or disjointed: I know. My bad. I just don't feel assed enough to give any more of a damn about it, though, sO ENJOY.

_Early summer, 2013._

 

“…Higher!  _Bleed ‘em dry!”_

Dipper’s upper lip curled. “Yeesh, Grunkle Stan,” he chided. “It’s like when you look at tourists, all you see are wallets with legs.”

Stan scoffed, flapping a hand. “That’s not true.”

“It  _so_  is,” Wendy grumbled, stooping over to reach the next shelf of knickknacks. “Like, Mr Pines, all you care about is money. I know for a  _fact_ ,” Here, she steadied her squat with a hand on the lowest shelf, and pointed her marker over at her boss like an accusing finger, “that you’re married to a guy who’s got more money than God. You should not be this greedy. Like, I bet you wouldn’t even  _have_  to work a day in your life, if you wanted.”

“Yeah, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper added. “When you look at Grunkle Fiddleford, is all you see is how much money he’s got?”

“It’s not his wallet I’m thinking about, kids,” Stan muttered to himself, wiping his nails on his lapel. 

The reaction was an immediate chorus of disgust.

“EUGH!”

“Gross!”

“ _There are children here!”_

Stan bent double as he slapped his knee. “HAH! That’s funny,” he cackled. When he straightened up, he glanced out the side window. “Dipper, go mop vomit off the lawn,” Stan ordered. “One of the  _‘valued customers’_  yakked by the totem-pole.”

\------------------------------------------------

It was true: Stanley didn’t  _have_  to work a day in his life. He could lock up the Mystery Shack tomorrow and still never be bothered about his finances.

Back in 1984, Fiddleford had read the proverbial writing on the wall and narrowed his company’s focus onto a strict path of consumer electronics and wireless technology. The switch proved overwhelmingly lucrative. And then, with a little good-faith investments in a pair of struggling, competing companies, McGucket-- in essence --became head string-puller for a vast majority of Macintosh software production and prototype development.

What had already seemed gold-dipped became solid 14-carat bullion. Stanley found himself bound in holy matrimony to a man with a permanent slot on the Forbes List. “Working for necessity” became something only  _other_  people did. 

But, as much as Stan enjoyed lying in the lap of luxury (that pale, slender little lap), a man had to have something of his own in order to keep his identity. His brain was too active. Stanley had to have  _something_  to do, and he wasn’t the kind of man for quiet-time, introspective hobbies. Laziness didn’t make him his own money, all it did was let him veg-out in front of the TV and scratch himself on the porch while lounging in his underpants-- Which, to be honest,  _was_  one of his favourite pastimes.

In the end, adopting a pseudo-career of entertaining tourists not only padded his pockets, it kept him focused and sane in ways that hours of group therapy or one-on-one headshrinking sessions never managed. It was a lot like tending a bar, except almost all of the people to whom he cracked jokes nowadays were sober.

Stan passed through the door that divided the Mystery Shack from the cabin, and eyed the crowd in the gift shop.

“…Hey, it’s on the house,” he heard. “That’s the Mabel Difference!”

Mabel was seated behind the counter--  _giving away his merchandise._

“HEY.”

The girl looked over, her open and cheerful expression staying unchanged in the face of her grunkle’s annoyed scowl. Stan stomped across the gift shop, peeling off his costume eyepatch as he demanded: “What the heck d’ya think you’re doin’?”

“Business!” The girl chirped, excited. She quickly jabbed a finger at the register’s noisy keys, echoing in onomatopoeia the sound they made. “ _Ching, ching, ching_ \--!”

Stan bumped his hip against the wooden stool, partly to scoot Mabel away from the register (i.e. away from  _his money_ ), and partly to put further distance between the girl and the source of her noise. “Listen,  _kid_ ,” he began, exasperation softening the rough edge of his frustration as he lectured, “you don’t  _make money_  by givin’ stuff away.”

Mabel’s cute face wrinkled with innocent confusion. The sight was enough to bring Stanley’s annoyance back in full force.

She ran her tongue over her braces beneath her closed lips before trying: “But, but--”

“No buts,” Stan snapped, “except  _yours_  out the door!” Kid was either too oblivious or too stubborn to listen to sense on the best of days, and the Shack was currently too full of rubes for him to attempt any patience. He nudged her farther from the counter. “You’re off’a register duty!”

The confused bend in Mabel’s brow quickly dipped inverse into an angry furrow. “Grunkle  _Stan!”_  She chided, girlish timbre ringing with offense. “Whatever happened to ‘please’, and ‘thank you’?  _Hmm_? Oh, wait-- Here they are!”

The split-second shift from anger back into Mabel’s trademark cheer was as equally surprising as the sudden, tacky slap of a sticker against his face. Stan blinked, the right lens of his glasses blocked by a large hot pink circle.

Mabel grinned toothily at him, clearly proud of herself.

The showman brought in a long, slow breath through his nose. _‘Grant me patience, Moses, just a little fuckin’ patience.’_

“Ugh,” Stan gruffed, pulling off his glasses to peel away Mabel’s sticker, before snatching off the one on his jaw. He grimaced, both from the sensation and at the sight of the stickers’ words, slapping one onto the front of the register. “‘ _Please’_  never made me any money, kid,” he declared. “In fact, just sayin’ the word is giving me a… a  _burning_  sensation,” he exaggerated. Stan crumpled the ‘Thank You’ sticker in his hand before flicking it away towards the wall.

Mabel watched him through a calculating squint. “You say ‘please’ to Grunkle Fiddleford, though!” she countered.

“Kid, he’s my  _husband_ , not my clientele,” Stan emphasized. “And, have you heard that man’s manners? Fiddleford uses the concept of etiquette as a weapon.  _You_  try goin’ toe-to-toe with him when he’s mad at you and busting out the chilly  _‘bless your heart’_ stuff. Geez,” Stan muttered, pushing up his glasses with a thumb. “Cut a guy off at the knees, instead,  _that’d_  be nicer.”

“No, thank you.” Mabel shook her head. “But!” She jabbed a sparkly-nailed pointer finger at her grunkle, declaring: “ _You_  should be nicer to  _your_  employees!”

Stan made a dramatic eyeroll towards the ceiling, and hauled out an equally put upon sigh. “Look, you got a problem with the way I run the Shack? Take it up with the complaints department.” He leaned over, just enough to snatch up a nearby wastebasket, and thrust it towards his great-niece. “ _Ziiing!_ Haha.”

“Ugh!” Mabel spat.

“Now, get off the register, and go round up the others,” Stan ordered, dropping the basket back into place on the floor. He straightened up, adding: “Soon as these yahoos in the gift shop leave, I want you to go get those overalls in the storage closet and climb onto the roof.”

Mabel stared. “Huh?”

“Remember those cans of paint I didn’t want you touchin’?” Grunkle Stan asked. At her nod, Stan pushed up his glasses, and he was suddenly smiling again. “You’ll see.”

. . .

Dipper was already whining before the tell-tale springing creak of the back door had finished slamming shut below. “Okay, is it just me, or is having Grunkle Stan as a boss seriously  _the worst?”_  He demanded loudly.

“Boy, you wouldn’t know a ‘horrible boss’ if one fired you in public,” a voice called from the yard.

Dipper looked down. A black sedan had pulled into the empty lot behind the porch, and a thin, white-haired man in a sweater-vest was rounding the hood of the car towards the Shack.

Mabel leaned over the edge of the balcony and waved. “Hiya, Grunkle Fiddleford!”

“Hey there, Mabel,” Fidd called back. He stopped a foot or so closer than where Stanley had been standing before. The engineer folded his arms into a comfortable cross over his middle. “…What are y’all doin’?”

Wendy gestured up at the half-glittered lettering with her paint roller. “Stan wants us to paint this sign with glitter because he wants to attract more tourists,” she explained.

“Well, the average tourist does have the same attention span as the average raccoon,” Fiddleford stated. He cocked his head, squinting through his glasses at the sign. “He’s probably onto somethin’ with the glitter.”

“ _No_ , Grunkle Stan is  _out_  of his mind,” Dipper complained, slapping down his paint roller.

Fiddleford made a nonchalant bounce of his shoulders. “That’s true, too.”

“All he does is boss us around!” Wendy moaned. “Why do we even put up with it?”

“… _Well_ , for starters,” Fiddleford drawled, shading his eyes with a flattened hand, “he IS your boss. That’s what bosses  _do_ , girl. They  _boss_.”

Sullen, frustrated murmurs passed between the little bunch on the balcony. Fiddleford didn’t try to strain to hear them clearly; their faces said it all. Annoying, yes. Unreasonable and stubborn,  _absolutely_. Stanley could be each of those things, and more-- But, at the end of the day, the man was a pretty decent employer.

“I’ll leave y’all to it, then,” Fiddleford said, before he walked up the porch steps.

The interior of the Shack was cool and largely empty. The late-morning rush had ended a short while ago, and most non-locals didn’t like to venture to the  ~~tourist traps~~  scenic spots outside of town until mid-afternoon. Fiddleford side-stepped a cardboard box of craft supplies and slid his hand along the stair railing as he climbed, calling out: “Stanley?”

“Fidd! Baby!” The graveled yell came from further down the hall, closer to the corner where Fiddleford knew Stan kept his office. It was only a few more steps forward for him before his spouse rounded the bend and met him in the middle, smile broadening at the sight of the shorter man.

“Hey, hot stuff,” Stanley cooed, enveloping Fiddleford in a hug. He pulled back just an inch or so, bringing up one of his hands to pet at the smaller man’s neat beard. “Ooh, I like this,” he complimented. “Classy trim.”

“Thank you,” Fidd murmured. Stanley hugged like a warm, heavy coat. The engineer sagged a little against the taller man, into the hold. “No compliments from me, though,” he quipped, nosing against the collar of Stanley’s dress shirt. “Did’ya even  _try_  shavin’ this morning? Or did you roll out of bed, scratch your chin, and think _‘Good enough’_?”

“You know my stubble’s too strong for those crappy razors Soos buys,” Stanley remarked. “I left my straight razor back at the house last night.”

“Then don’t sleep  _here_  so much,” Fiddleford countered. He didn’t mean for it, but there was a deliberate, smarmy bite to his tone.

Stanley, like all seasoned married folk, ignored it. “Got a business to run, babe. Plus, I can’t leave the kids out in the woods,” he reasoned. “What if they forget to lock the doors at night and get eaten by something? I’m already on shaky ground with their folks.”

A delicate shrug bounced Fiddleford’s shoulders. “We could put them up in the guest bedroom,” he suggested, lightly.

Stanley narrowed his eyes. He pulled back to look down into Fiddleford’s steady blue gaze. “…You want me to bring the kids over to your  _house?_  For the whole summer? Y’want those two rascals in your snug sittingroom, in your tidy kitchen, or being nosy through your study?” The younger man rhetorized. “You want them finding those photos of that time we--?”

“For your  _information_ , boy--” The engineer jabbed a faux-pissy pointer finger against Stanley’s broad chest and raised his eyebrows as he articulated: “--I  _hid_  those pictures, in a  _safe_. A cipher-protected safe. They won’t ‘find’ nothin’.”

Stanley rolled his eyes indulgently even as he snorted, unconvinced. “Fiddlesticks.  _Baby_.” His deep voice was fond, but firm. “They’re magnets for monsters. They come by that  _natural_.”

The part that went unsaid, about the other monster magnet they once knew, hung invisible and heavy in the air between them.

A few long seconds went by, before the smaller man licked his lips and quickly backpeddled, eager to defuse the tension.

“…On second thought,” Fiddleford stated, lighter, “I shouldn’t suggest uprootin’ them. They’re already in a new place, they’ve settled into the Shack…”

“Yeah, s’what I thought.”

Fiddleford snorted. “ _Aaanywaaays_ ,” he drawled, emphasizing the subject change, “I’m only here to see you for a little bit, ‘fore I fly out.” His accent went softer along with his voice as he watched Stanley react to his next words. “Won’t be back for a day or two.”

“ _Nooo_.” As predicted, his spouse’s face fell and wrinkled further with displeasure. “Fiddleford, no! Why d’ya have to go?”

“Have to squash the little people, Stanley. The free market is a wonderful thing.”

“Yeah, wonderful for fillin’ the bank,” Stan groused.

Fiddleford gave Stan’s back an apologetic stroke. “Thought you liked money?”

“Fuck money. I’ll make my own money. You don’t have’ta go if I make my own money.”

“Stanley--”

“There was this one dude from China in the Shack today; brought nine people with him on a tour, and they  _all_  bought t-shirts, Fidd,  _all_  of them. And bobbleheads!  _And_  keychains!”

“That’s nice, Stan, but--”

“I’m tellin’ you: People are stupid, honey, they’re so  _damn stupid_  when they’re on vacation, it’s like they’re all wearing signs around their necks sayin’ ‘I AM A SHMUCK WITH THE FINANCIAL SMARTS OF A SQUIRREL’. I can make a grand in one afternoon on a good day--”

“Stanley.” His husband’s lips were dry and cool against the metal fingertips of his prosthesis. “If I go on this trip,” he explained, “I won’t have to leave again for six months.  _Eight_ , maybe, if this’un goes well.”

Fiddleford saw the instant when the little light went off inside Stan’s head as the information settled, after the obvious calendar-related inquiries were calculated.

“… _Well_. That changes things.” Stanley peeked over his shoulder to check back around the corner before turning back to Fiddleford, and pushing him towards the hallway’s nearby open bathroom. “Le’me give you a proper goodbye, then, sweetcheeks,” he purred.

“Stanley, don’t you  _dar_ \--MMPH.”

He barely noticed as Stanley backed him through the doorway.

“…Oh, to  _hell_  with it,” Fiddleford breathed.

The showman kicked the bathroom door closed with his foot. “That’s what I like to hear.”

\------------------------------------------------

Stanley adjusted the seat of his fez on his head as he walked through the museum’s side passage that led into the Shack’s interior.

Pretty good tour, pretty good tour. Pretty good day! Stan grinned to himself. He wasn’t expecting Fiddleford to be up for a bathroom quickie,  _but_ , here they were.

It was going to be annoying trying to get to sleep tonight, of that he was certain. Stanley always hated when Fiddleford had to take trips out of town without him. Didn’t retirement mean Fidd was supposed to not work? Well,  _“not work as much”_ ; Stanley knew his spouse. Trying to keep that little man from doing what he wanted was a lot like trying to teach Stan that laws weren’t meant to be interpreted as personal challenges. It couldn’t be done. The most he could hope for was an overnight meeting happening only every other month, and Fiddleford micromanaging his replacements at the HQ only every other day of the week.

Stan paused for a moment at the mirror by the front door, reflexively tugging at his string tie to even out the loops. He was running a finger inside the upper folds of his collar when he caught sight of a red splotch on his throat, just at the lower edge of his stubble.

Cocky smugness spread in his middle. It’d been thirty goddamned years, and Fiddleford could  _still_  get so sanelessly hot for Stan that he left hickeys. Enough to give a man a permanently blimped-out ego, it was. (He was sure Fidd knew it, too.)

Squaring his shoulders, Stanley stretched a wide, welcoming smile across his face as he opened the door and waved to a new group of tourists. The empowered sensation in his middle carried him through another tour, and had his showman’s bravado in peak, charming form, managing to squeeze nine snowglobes, three keychains, two t-shirts, and six bobbleheads worth of sweet, sweet vacation money from the visitors.

Pretty damned good day.

If he closed in an hour, Stan thought, there’d still be time to call ahead to the factory and order another box of tchotchkes.

He turned into the main hall on absent feet.  _‘Clearance ends on the twelfth; shipping is another $20 to get the whole package--’_

“GRUNKLE STAN.”

Mabel appeared in front of him-- suddenly, and  _shrieking_. Stanley yelped with a jump, just managing to keep from falling backwards. “Geez, kid! What’s your problem?”

The expression on his niece’s glitter paint-splattered face was murderous.

\------------------------------------------------

Merger negotiations were always boring, especially when the company being absorbed knew there wasn’t anything they could do to retain any of their prior individuality. They were a part of MGL, now; their days of choice and influence were over. Surrender to the Borg, resistance is futile-- all that wonderful, inevitable stuff.

But,  _damn_ , inevitability or not, these things always needed to be triple-checked and their copies’ copied and checked again, so Fidd knew he was in for a quite a wait.

At least this hotel conference room got cable.

Charmaine, his assistant, was flipping channels on the sizeable flatscreen mounted across the room. “Anything in particular, sir?”

“Somethin’ to fill the silence, Charmaine,” Fiddleford drawled, waving an absent hand in her direction. He shuffled papers into his portfolio as he said: “I don’t rightly care, find some daytime garbage, or somethin’.”

“Okie-doke,” the brunette chirped. Eventually she settled on a channel, currently on commercial, and put aside the remote to pick up her iPad again.

Fiddleford drummed his human fingertips against the hardwood tabletop, only half of his mind on the paperwork under his pen.

He hadn’t checked on his husband in over a day. The last time he’d spoken to Stanley had been when Fiddleford was checking into the hotel, yesterday; Stan had only been partly adding to the conversation because Mabel was yelling about something in the background, and Stanley’s barking orders over to her was his version of “mediating”. Fiddleford guessed they were alright.

So far, the kids seemed to be enjoying staying with their “grunkles”. Granted, they were staying at the Mystery Shack instead of the house which technically belonged to both Fiddleford and Stan, and they spent more time with Stanley, but-- That was just the state of things. Fidd was married into the Pines family, but he wasn’t A Pines, himself. Thirty-some-odd-years of faithful, loyal domesticity wasn’t anything to sneeze at, surely, but--

It was what it was.

The channel turned out to be some sort of daytime gameshow. The brassy, strident bars of Cash Wheel’s theme filled the small room, and Fiddleford listened with half an ear as the host introduced the episode.

_“…Now, let’s meet those contestants!”_

_“I’m Doug from Fairfield, California!”_

_“I’m Donna! From--”_

_“I’M STAN! STAN PINES!”_

Fiddleford felt every inch of himself freeze. He looked up at the television.

 _“H-hello? Did we already do me?”_  Stanley questioned, before grinning into the camera. _“I’m Stan!”_

_‘…What the fuck.’_

The gameshow’s host gave a nervous laugh.  _“Eheh, okaaay,”_  he drawled, clearly uncomfortable.  _“Well, it’s going to be a long night, folks,”_  he quipped into the camera. Fiddleford barely registered the sound of the studio audience’s laughter in the midst of his shock.

_‘Oh my god.’_

On screen, the host turned to face the adjacent puzzleboard. _“It’s time to solve--”_

The sound of that hoarse, self-satisfied cackle had Fiddleford leaning forward onto his elbows and cradling his temples between his palms, eyes glued to the distant screen, the same moment that the gameshow’s host tried to recover from the interruption.

Fiddleford felt his eyes go impossibly wider.  _‘Oh my god.’_

_“It’s, uh, time to solve that puzzle! Carla?”_

The lady presenter flashed a dazzling smile.  _“Yes, Rich?”_

Stanley suddenly shouted: _“Are there any esses?!”_  

At his left, Charmaine looked up from her iPad. She squinted at the screen, leaning forward slightly. “…Is that--?”

 _“Actually,”_  Rich countered, _“it’s not your turn, yet--”_

The camera trained onto the puzzleboard showed the very first and the very last of the blank puzzle spaces flipping with two cash-register noises to reveal esses, much to the bewildered confusion of presenter Carla.

Stan was wearing a smug smile as he announced:  _“I’m ready to solve!”_

 _“No!”_  The host objected. _“The game hasn’t started--!”_

Charmaine was watching her boss’s stricken profile with a shrewd measure of caution. “Sir, are you alright…?”

Stanley’s grin was borderline manic with glee.  _“Is it… ‘Shut your yaaaps’?”_

“Oh my  _gooooddd_ ,” Fiddleford moaned.

The puzzleboard flickered again with another register ding, blank spaces filling with letters, and then the TV speakers were blaring the Cash Wheel themesong as the audience cheered and applauded.

Host Rich gave an impressed nod at Stan.  _“Well played.”_

“Oh my god,” Fiddleford repeated, watching as his husband leaned over his podium to grab and spin the game wheel. “Oh my  _god_ \--”

Charmaine was already up and out of her seat as the conference room door began to open.

The woman was like a wall, blocking Dwight from going any further than the doorway. “Pause the meeting,” she commanded, voice carefully low. “We’re not going to get anything done.”

The CFO frowned. “Wait, what? I already got everyone--”

Charmaine made a subtle finger flick back over her shoulder. Dwight craned his neck to look behind her.

The television was on, its picture tight on an image of an older, grey-stubbled man in a black suit, shaking his crossed fingers as he looked on hopefully towards something happening off-screen.

Dwight narrowed his eyes. “Is that--?”

Charmaine interrupted him with a quick: “Yep.”

_“Cash shower, cash shower, cash shower…”_

The wheel stopped spinning with one last click. A flash of lights, a delighted cheer from the audience, and then the host announced:  _“You landed on cash shower!”_

Stanley threw his arms up with a triumphant yell.  _“YEEESS!”_

And then he began to unbutton his suit jacket.

Host Rich was staring with panicked horror.  _“Mr Pines? No, you don’t need to take your clothes off--!”_

Fiddleford buried his face into his hands with a defeated, barely-audible whimper as the television showed the gameshow host running to cover the stage camera as a shirtless Stan, just off to the right, started to pull down his boxers.

 _“--No, go to commercial,”_  the host screamed, trying to cover the camera,  _“GO TO COMMERCIAL!”_

The screen went black and silent, before the network rolled over an advert for Wal*Mart.

“…Jesus christ,” Dwight muttered. “Fine,” he sighed, flapping his hand where it rested on the door-handle. “I’ll handle the guys out here; tell ‘em something came up.”

“Look up how long Cash Wheel episodes run,” Charmaine ordered. “We’ll pick up again when Mr McGucket’s husband is off television.” She swiveled her hips just enough to turn her shoulders to look back at the seated executive. “Is that good for you, sir?” Having worked this long for MGL’s Chief CEO had taught her that, whether people liked it or not, if Mr McGucket was nearby, then he was within earshot.

Fiddleford hadn’t moved from where he’d hidden his face in his hands. His answer was a muffled, weak sound coming out around his fingers. “Yes, thank you, Charmaine.”

. . .

Fiddleford had already had the speed-dial pressed for Stanley’s cellphone before the commercial even started airing. He knew the idiot had to have his phone on him; Stan never left home without it.

The line connected with the sound of a distracted:  _“Hello?”_

“Stanley Pines,” he breathed.

 _“Hey, baby!”_  Stan sounded cheerful through the phone.  _“How’s your day going?”_

“What in the sweet bountiful fuck are you doin’ on television?” Fiddleford demanded, his voice tight and even.

The bastard had the audacity to sound genuinely surprised.  _“Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you--”_

“Did you seriously hop on a fuckin’ plane and go to LA?”

 _“No,”_  Stanley said,  _“you know I’m not allowed to fly commercial.”_

“Well, then, how--”

_“I took your plane.”_

Fiddleford pressed his forehead against his wrist, the edge of his smartphone digging into his temple as he quietly counted to ten, and consciously tried to breathe.

“…Why are you in Los Angeles, Stanley,” he finally managed, voice deliberately flat. “Where are the children?”

_“They’re back at the Shack, of course.”_

His calm instantly disappeared. He tried not to sound too shrill. “You just  _left them?!”_

 _“Hey, they’re bright kids, Fidd!”_  His husband defended. _“They can cook and get themselves to bed, and everything! Also, Wendy and Soos should be there,”_ he added, in afterthought.

“ _‘Should be there’_?” Fiddleford parroted, incredulous. “Like that’s supposed to make me feel better?! Wendy is fifteen! And, the only place Jesús is an  _adult_  is on his fuckin’ license,  _Stanley_.”

 _“Honey, it’s for a good cause, alright.”_ Stan’s voice suddenly held that well-practiced timbre of apology which wasn’t really apology, but it still had some kind of sideways acknowledgment in it towards his unfixable fuckup. (Fiddleford knew the sound better than his own accent.)  _“I’m going to rob this place stupid,”_  Stanley revealed _. “I’ve got a whole plan.”_

“Your  _plans_ , Stanley, are  _total cra--”_

_“It’s for a bet! I left Mabel in charge! She promised me she had everything under control before I left.”_

“Oh, my god, Stanley.  _Stanley_. Mabel is  _twelve_.” Fiddleford paused, consciously swallowing down the hot ball of ragepanic that lodged in his throat. “…That’s it, I’m callin’ Lorraine.”

_“Aw, c’mon, Fidd; nooo, don’t do that, geez--”_

“Stanley, y’can’t just fuck off t’go on television when you got children in your care--!”

 _“I know that, Fiddleford, I’m not--”_  The background noise suddenly grew louder.  _“Wait, I got’a go, okay, Iloveyoushow’scomin’backonWATCHMEWINSOMEMONEY!”_

CLICK.

. . .

Dwight hadn’t been hired for situations like this, but the number-cruncher was proving himself more than adept at leading the meeting alone. Fiddleford and Charmaine had switched ends of the long conference room table to sit in the chairs closest to the television, while Dwight had commandeered the opposite end with the representatives from the Needful Corporation.

The teevee had been turned down much lower than before, allowing Fiddleford to both eavesdrop on his CFO and to keep an eye on the parade of lunacy his husband was leading on Cash Wheel.

“He is really good at this, sir,” Charmaine murmured from his left.

Fiddleford leaned forward and scooped a handful of peanuts from the complimentary bowl beside the water decanter. “I know,” he assured, settling back into his seat as he funneled half of the peanuts into his mouth. “But don’t  _ever_  tell him,” he ordered, the snack pushed into his cheek. “Smug bastard don’t need his ego inflated no more.”

The hotel concierge had brought in a small complimentary minibar sometime after Dwight had settled down with the Needfuls, and Charmaine--  _bless her_  --had filled a cocktail mixer for Fiddleford once she’d realized her boss had pretty much given up on work for the day.

_“You landed on Cash Flood!”_

Sirens wailed, and an absurd amount of money was released from off-camera, covering Stanley’s station in a green wave. Fiddleford absently took the shaker from his assistant as he watched as his spouse paddle through the banknotes and lean onto his podium, declaring into the camera with a proud smile:  _“I’m givin’ **none**  of this to charity!”_

The engineer snorted, nodding his head with satisfaction. “I’ve taught him well,” Fidd murmured.

_“And now, you can go home a thousandaire, or, you could risk everything to double your money on the Bonus Word!”_

_“Rich, I’m a simple man.”_

Fiddleford snorted.

_“So, I’m going to take my winnings, pack my bags, and…”_

Stanley turned around, as if to step off of the set, before swinging back to his podium with a manic grin.

_“…BET THEM ALL ON THE BONUS WORD!”_

Fidd uncapped and then drained the shaker in one gulp.

\------------------------------------------------

The trip home was uneventful, and quick. He'd half expected Fiddleford to call again, but Stan's cellphone remained strangely silent all the way from Los Angeles. Rolling the Caddy around to stop in the dirt drive in front of the Shack, his spouse quickly became the last thing on his mind as he spied the tell-tale seams of new boards hammered into the face of the porch. He climbed out of the Cadillac and grabbed his luggage, smirking. _‘If they had to replace a wall,’_ Stan thought, _‘then something weird happened. Something expensive.’_

For just a moment, the showman stared past the yellowy stained glass of the Mystery Shack’s front door window, watching the quartet seated around the counter fret over a long tally receipt from the register calculator. _‘Something waaay expensive,’_ he thought, smugly.

Stan rolled the doorhandle over in his fist and pushed through into the gift shop. "Tick tock, kiddos," he boomed. “I’m seein’ a long-ass receipt for repairs, and not much else,” he declared. “Do you know what that means, kids?”

Mabel tucked her chin, Stan's too-large fez sliding over the crown of her head. “…How much did you beat us by?” Her question was a dejected mumble. 

The panel of crestfallen expressions before him nearly had Stan abandoning the lie he'd rehearsed on the plane. Geez, Mabel looked _exhausted_.

For a split second, the showman felt a pang of sympathy...

 _"You think you'd be a better boss than me?!"_  
“ _Yeah! Because I give people **respect**."_

...But. 

The little gremlin  _did_  call him a "big grump".

Stanley set down his suitcase just beyond the doorway and propped his hands onto his hips, grinning broadly. “I won three-hundred-thousand dollars!”

“Holy crap!” Wendy squawked.

"That's insane!" Dipper added. He paused, suspiciously eyeing the single, slim case standing beside his uncle. "...Wait, where is it?"

Stan blinked. 

_'Uh oh.'_

There was the sound of a voice shouting from the yard: “He forgot the word ‘please’, and then he lost the game.”

“Fidd!” Stan whipped around, momentarily forgetting the group inside. "You're back! I didn't hear you come up!"

"I phoned it in," Fiddleford told, shutting the driver's side door. "What? Did'ja think I was just gon'a keep right on workin' after I saw you make an ass of yourself on national television?" The engineer climbed the porch steps with a deadpan expression. “You stopped my _whole day_ in its tracks, Stanley."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry--"

"And that last puzzle… Stanley. Oh my _god."_

"Fiddy, baby, I was nervous!" Stan excused. "I got excited! I--"

"Wait, did you  _really_  lose three hundred thousand dollars?" Dipper piped up, drawing back their grunkle's attention. "...Because you forgot the word... ' _please_ '?" The baffled glee on his soft face was an exact match to the wide-eyed schadenfreude that had already taken hold of his sister's expression. "Really?"

" _Really_ ," Fiddleford stressed.

Stan innocently glanced everywhere that wasn't his husband.

“Mabel," Dipper suddenly started, not missing a beat, "didn’t your agreement say something about Stan having to do some kind of ‘apology dance’ if he lost?”

Fiddleford’s gaze snapped to his grand-niblings. “What?”

“N-no,  _no_ ,” Stan stuttered, waving his hands at Fiddleford as if to brush away the idea. “No, it didn’t--”

The grin on Mabel’s face took on a malicious tilt. “Actually, yeah,” she drawled, “I think I have it in my notes, here--”

“No!” His protests were falling on deaf ears. “That _never happened!”_

“Haha, I’ll get the camera!” Wendy cackled. Mabel and Dipper jumped down from their seats and followed her out the side door, calling out: “Go get that sequin tracksuit Grunkle Stan put on the wax Elvis!”

Stan turned towards the other man, brown eyes wide and pleading as he clutched at his husband’s upper arms. “Fidd, _baby_ , y’got’a believe me--!”

“Never for as long as I live,” Fiddleford slung back smoothly, pulling the taller man’s hands off of his sleeves. “Stanley, you lost  _three hundred thousand dollars_  because you forgot the word ‘ _please’_. You’re doin’ the fuckin’ dance.”

“Sonofa _bitch_.”

 

.


End file.
